Through the Soul of The City
by Adolphus Black
Summary: This is the story of Gotham, step by step. Who made it, who fought for it, who fought to break it. This is the unified story of this small universe, starting from a fragment of Alfred Pennyworth's diary, to the last scent that was left from the city. We will find out who the Joker is, where did Catwoman came from, how did Bane come to be.


My name is Alfred Pennyworth, and I might never sleep again. I have had a few hard fought nights, where I have looked for a rest here and there, turning around in my blankets and sheets, begging for my eyes to close, for my conscience to die. But know I have simply given up. I make myself a cup of tea, and go watch the moonlight as it crosses the empty sky. It is probably filled with stars, but they've hidden from our artificial lights. How ironic.

I've decided to start this diary, for I have come to think that emptying my mind and heart will bring back the peace inside of me. Of course, I might be wrong, and who am I to think that one's sins will just go away if he simply tells them to a blank piece of paper? Anyhow, I have nothing better to do at night, and the feeling that I share my experiences softens a silent pain I have endured for years.

Let me tell you about the Waynes. I had first worked for them after serving in the army as a doctor. I got shot, and eventually returned home, where I had nothing to do. I remember those days as some kind of frontier between the madness of a battlefield and the one that lives in monotony. I was, indeed, losing my mind. What saved me was a friend of mine, who was actually working in Master Wayne's service. He spoke to him about me, and one afternoon I recieved a visit from the most powerful man in Gotham, if not the whole country. He shook my hand and asked me if he could sit. I offered him the best seat, of course. I remember every word we crossed during that interview., but I will spare you the useless details. All you must know is that he came because he needed a new aid for the house. Mr. Robbins, who had served the family for thirty years, had died from a lung cancer. "He smoked like a chimney" Mr Wayne said, with a sad voice. At the end of our conversation, I was convinced by his offer, and it wasn't for the money. I was going to be wealthy, yes, but there was something far more powerful, like an intuition, a feeling that I was going to be a part of an extraodinary family.

Ten years later, Thomas Wayne married Martha Kane, who was to inherit one of the biggest fortunes of Gotham. Their union made a lot of noise. I remember them as a happy couple that found a sense to their lives being together: they both wanted to change the world, free Gotham from corruption. They felt their fortunes as a powerful responsibility over their shoulders, and accepted it with ease. I think none of them would've ever been able to live as an average wealthy person. They would've gone crazy, surely.

After two years of marriage, Martha Wayne was pregnant. I remember the little boy's first scream. Mrs. Abbott, who had assisted the labour, called me with a smile on her face and led me to a room where Thomas Wayne was somking a pipe. I remember he smiled at me and told me this: "now I guess I'll have to fight harder, Alfred". "Why, sir?" I asked, and then he told me ,"because I brought an innocent child to this world without asking for his permission. The least I can do is give him a world worth living in."

Bruce was a vivid, curious and very smart young fellow. He was very close to his parents. His mother was his smile, and his father was his words. Soon, they gave him this strong sense of justice that he cultivated alone, as a principle. Maybe the fact that he was isolated and rich made him create a very pure moral code. He had no reason to be corrupt, and there was no one around him to break the idea of truth, and fairness, and equalty that he was building in his head. But, ah, Master Bruce! The tragedies of the world fell over his young soul all at once. And the bruises that they left did never close. Everyday I saw him, and there was no scar, no whitened tissue, no hope. He just bleeded from an open, irreparable wound.


End file.
